


Breathing Underwater

by tawktomahawk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, NSFW, Online Dating, Online dating but also not, Smutty McSmutterson, for the drama darling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawktomahawk/pseuds/tawktomahawk
Summary: The last two pictures are of Jaime on the same beach she's currently laying on. His body is, quite frankly, ridiculous, but his face makes Brienne want to scream. She takes one long, intentional breath, just to ensure her body is still in check. And then, because bravery is the day’s motto, she swipes right.And is promptly nailed in the head with a volleyball.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 93
Kudos: 365





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> well. I have another one shot I should be working on, but when inspiration strikes....you write the damn thing and post it unedited! right?

Traveling makes Brienne brave. 

It’s odd that wandering through the markets in Pentos is so much more enjoyable than walking down the cement streets that splice King’s Landing, but it is. In Pentos, there aren’t advertisements pasted on the side of every building, billboard, and bus. _Look like this!_ They all scream. Women in Pentos seem more comfortable; makeup if they want it, loose clothes if they want them, flat shoes to walk in. No street should double as a runway. 

Brienne booked this solo trip at the end of last year. Her twenty-seventh birthday had been coming up, and the age had unsettled her a bit. Sounded strange to her own ears. Never mind that youth had never been particularly kind to her in the first place. She definitely wasn’t afraid of getting older. Actually, the older Brienne got, the better she felt about herself and her place in the world. The more exhausted she was by everyone’s expectations about women and their age. _By eighteen you should have lost your virginity. By twenty-two you should have had your first love. By twenty-five you should have…._ To hell with all of it. Were women’s lives supposed to consist only of things that _happened_ to them? Where's the fucking agency?

Still, Brienne was a bit afraid of mourning her twenties. Or, she supposes, of there being no sparkly memories to miss. Of letting her “youth” be dominated by experiences and feelings she had endured and outgrown, rather than a few she had reached out and grabbed for herself. 

So, Brienne turned twenty-seven, ate her favorite meal that she bought and cooked herself, and sat on her couch to buy tickets to Pentos. She had always wanted to visit, and if her twenties weren’t going to fill themselves with raucous evenings and one too-long tumultuous romance, she’d book a trip to a warm, beautiful city and wear the shorts and dress she’d been too nervous to wear in King’s Landing. She might kiss a stranger.

Pentos bustles with light-hearted energy. People sit on the streets drinking coffee and tea. Music fills the streets and old couples read newspapers while smoking their cigarettes. Three teenagers walk by her; one has green hair, the other wears heeled platform boots, and the last is a sweet-looking girl who looks out-of-place and entirely at home at the same time. The sun beats down on Brienne’s neck, but she doesn’t mind the sweat starting to gather there. She feels _warm._

She spends the afternoon down by the beach, reading a book and drinking plenty of water. She applies sunscreen religiously, but pinkens a bit anyways as the day slips by like honey. 

On a whim, she downloads a dating app. 

Brienne so rarely feels daring. Brave, sure, but never ballsy. But something about the salt air, the clothes she packed, how strong she felt in her swimsuit—it all makes her want to take a risk. The locals here always smile at her, and it feels like reassurance. 

She cringes her way through the app’s formalities, but ultimately she finds three pictures of herself that she doesn’t mind looking at. Tall, strong, capable, kind. None of those things are the same as “beautiful,” but no meaningful strength can come from proximity to that kind of power, anyways. She hates her bio, but so does everyone, and besides— _who cares?_ Today is an exercise in being brave. She presses **Done** , and suddenly a man’s profile picture fills her phone’s screen. 

**Addam Marbrand. 39. Boxing, swimming, fishing.**

_Eh,_ Brienne thinks. _The fishing could be a potential red-flag, but he’s handsome enough._ She swipes right. Fuck it. 

**Sandor Clegane. 35. I’m too old for bullshit.**

Brienne supposes that’s a good thing, but the man is glowering in every single one of his photos. She’s reserved enough on her own; at least one of them should smile easily. She swipes left, and feels oddly guilty. _It’s just an app, Brienne. Gods._

**Podrick Payne. 20. What’s your favorite movie? I’ll buy you dinner if you can guess mine :-)**

_20?!_ Brienne moves to her settings to readjust her age limit. She stares at the ages she already has entered for a few seconds, and then admits to herself that she’s always had a bit of a thing for older men. Not _too_ much older...she quickly shifts her mind away from the thought of Alan Rickman’s voice. Just a bit older. Enough for the world to have seared away most men’s expectation of perfection from any and everyone. Enough for them to not laugh nervously at the mention of a clitoris. 

Age 35 to 50, she enters. **Done.**

And then her screen is filled with a picture of the hottest fucking man she’s ever seen. 

**Jaime Lannister. 43. My brother made me do this. Fuck it.**

He has about four pictures lined up. The first one is utterly ridiculous and looks like it was professionally taken. His pants are pushed low on his hips, and he’s staring down at the camera with half of his stomach revealed. It’s in black and white, but she can still see the bits of gray in his beard. Brienne might have an aneurysm. 

She flicks to the next photo and—yep, the sight of this man just turned her brain into a circuit board and shorted the entire fucking grid. 

_Who has eyes like that?_ This time he’s in a suit. He looks like a douchebag, just a little, but that doesn’t mean Brienne wouldn’t do anything he wanted her to if he asked her while wearing it.

The last two pictures are of him on the beach. His body is, quite frankly, ridiculous, but his face makes Brienne want to scream. She takes one long, intentional breath, just to ensure her body is still in check. And then, because bravery is the day’s motto, she swipes right.

And is promptly nailed in the head with a volleyball. 

It doesn’t hurt too bad, but the indignity of it annoys her a bit. It’s probably some annoying high school boys who are going to apologize while holding back their shit-eating grins and laugh as soon as she looks the other way. She rubs her temple and stands up; she knows exactly how to deal with boys like that. She’s twenty-seven now, and a full six-foot three of tall, muscular woman. 

Steeling herself, she leans down and picks the ball up with one hand. _Power move_ , she thinks, resisting the urge to smile. She hardens her face, clenches her jaw and shoulders, and tightens her abs, too. _Let these boys cower._ She moves with the raw intent to intimidate. 

Except when she turns, it isn’t a scrawny seventeen year old boy. 

It’s Jaime Lannister, fourty-three year old God with the aneurysm-inducing online dating profile. And he’s staring at her, slack-jawed. 

“S-sorry,” he says, gesturing faintly at the ball in her hand.

Why can’t Brienne breathe? The photos barely did him justice, and they were already enough to make her abandon all reason.

She can barely even look at him. Surely her face is beet red. She finds this man so viscerally attractive it’s affecting her heartbeat. Strangely, it doesn’t make her shy away. If anything, it spurs her on. She pushes her shoulders back and lifts her chin. Under the bright sun, she can’t see if his eyes flash, but he straightens and coils, too.

Her voice comes out a little raspy. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to.” She holds the ball out to him, and he looks down at it. “Here.” 

His eyes move from the ball to her wrist, then up her forearm. Tracing her bicep. She can feel his gaze like a touch on her shoulder. Up her neck. His eyes settle on her mouth. Brienne feels hot. 

“Here,” she repeats, and shoves the ball towards his chest. 

He takes it, but doesn’t move. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

She stares at him for a moment. Why would he want to know? 

“Brienne,” she says, trying to say it casually. Like she would to a new, average-looking acquaintance. She does _not_ imagine the way he’d say it in more heated circumstances.

“ _Brienne_ ,” he repeats. Slowly. Dammit. That’s even better than how she was trying not to imagine it. 

“Yes.” _Fuck, don’t stammer._ “Yeah. I’m Brienne. And, um—yours?” As if she doesn’t already know. As if she won’t go home to Sansa and Margaery and spend an entire night telling them about Jaime Lannister, fourty-three year old God from Pentos who nailed her (not in the desired places, but with a volleyball). 

“I’m Jaime.” 

She nods. Be casual. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Jaime.” Very smooth. _Nail me, Jaime._

“Are you from around here? Or visiting?” 

“Visiting. Just for a couple days.”

“Mm.” His hum settles deep in her stomach. She shifts on her legs, and he tracks the anxious movement, fingers tightening on the volleyball. “Are you here alone?” he asks. He shakes his head once, and then looks up at her again. “Sorry, that sounded weird. I just—some friends of mine are going to stay on the beach and grill and watch the sunset. If you’re alone you should—you should join us.” Then he straightens up and looks at her cockily. “If you want.” 

She stares at him for a moment. A twinge in her gut is saying “No, absolutely not. Do not engage. Go back to your room, take a shower, and put aloe vera gel on your shoulders.” There’s also another, needier twinge in her gut, one that’s wreaking havoc on her ability to breathe properly. The way he’s _looking_ at her—Gods. She tries not to think about his dating profile. About him in a suit. Tries not to think about the small chance he’ll see her on there. “Yeah.” Be brave, Brienne. Reclaim your twenties. “Yeah, I do want to. Thanks.” 

He nods. And then keeps nodding. “Cool.” 

Brienne feels awkward. She’s also wet. Fuck this guy. “Um, are you—are you finished with the game?” 

That snaps him out of whatever trance he’s in, and he jerks his head back to look at the beach volleyball court behind him. His friends are playing with a different ball, and he relaxes when he sees that they aren’t watching him and waiting. 

“You can join us whenever. My brother’s girlfriend is sitting this game out—she’s the brunette over there at the picnic table.” Brienne looks over his shoulder and sees the pretty woman he’s talking about. Brienne nods. When she looks back at Jaime, he’s staring at her stomach. She coughs, and his eyes snap back up to hers. 

“You can, uh, you can play with us, too. If you want. You seem—” He lifts a hand and runs it nervously through his hair. His perfect golden-gray hair. “—You seem athletic.”

Brienne nods slowly. “Yeah. I’d be up for a game.” 

He licks his lips. “Great.” The cocky expression slips back into place. “Well, come on then. I’ll introduce you.” 

Brienne slides on her pair of shorts and feels Jaime watch her do it. Her skin prickles with awareness of him. 

“I played in college,” she tells him, matching his cocky expression from earlier. He's standing quite close to her—when did he move? She realizes she's taller than him. It makes her feel powerful. “Don’t expect an easy win.” 

Jaime smirks, and the expression sharpens his features. His glinting eyes. His jawline. Brienne doesn’t know where to look; the wicked man is like the sun. She can’t look away. His perfect pink mouth opens, and his tongue wets his lips. “Oh, you’ll be on my team, sweetling.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here be orgasms. final warning

The volleyball game is a lesson in self-control. Because both Brienne and Jaime are so tall and have already teamed up, Tyrion declares himself the referee of a two-on-two game, and Jaime introduces her to his friends, Bronn and Ilyn, from their side of the net. 

“Uncharacteristically bold of you, Lannister,” Bronn says with a smirk as he shakes Brienne’s hand. Brienne immediately deigns to crush this guy in the upcoming game; she hates when men speak about her when she’s _right there._ Her handshake might be a bit firm, but Bronn shifts his eyes to her and grins. Ilyn is more taciturn, and he gives her a firm nod and a small smile.

As Jaime moves his arms next to her while delivering introductions, she realizes that he has only one hand. He isn’t watching when she notices, so she just walks automatically to her position on the right side of the net before he has to ask. 

“Welcome, Brienne!” Tyrion shouts from the picnic bench. She waves at him and Tysha, and Jaime tosses the recovered ball to Ilyn. 

What follows is the most sexually frustrating experience of her life. Jaime Lannister must have been sent from above to kill her. The Stranger is either a much kinder or much more malicious entity than she thought.

It isn’t just his absurdly attractive face. It’s that everything from the way he moves to the way he speaks is sharp, and it slices into the softest, most desperate parts of her like butter. An elegant jump punctuated by a brutal spike. The lithe movement of his abdomen as he delivers a serve. The glint of his teeth when he grins at her after scoring a point. 

She channels her frustration into the game. Her height, her strength, and her determination have always been appreciated on the court. It makes it easier for her to reconcile the body she has with the things she wants to do. Usually, that means being proud of a good save while being disappointed in a failed date. Today, it means crushing Bronn and Ilyn, because she can’t very well shove Jaime Lannister down into the sand and take him the way she wants to. 

“You’re good,” Jaime drawls with a small, shark-like smile.

“I know,” she bites back. 

“What should we do to celebrate when we win?”

She can’t help herself. Her eyes slide down his body, and by the time her eyes meet his again, his smile is gone and his jaw is tight. “We haven’t won yet,” she says. 

“We will.” 

Do men still smoulder? Is that still an acceptable way to describe their fuckability? _Gods._

She tosses him the ball and ignores the lurch in her stomach when he catches it without breaking eye contact. He holds her gaze for a beat longer. 

“Think about your prize, Brienne.” And then he saunters away to the serving line, sends the ball viciously over the net, and grins when Bronn fumbles it. 

They win. 

* * *

Everyone crowds around the grill and the picnic table while they cook dinner, and Brienne spends most of her time chatting with Tysha and trying not to be too conspicuous while watching Jaime. Even as she tries to keep her eyes off of him, she’s frequently distracted by his cutting laugh or his golden form in her periphery.

Tysha and Tyrion say their goodbyes early on, before the sun has fully set. Brienne sits awkwardly with Bronn, Ilyn, and Jaime, but Ilyn notices and asks her about her experience with college volleyball. Grateful for the distraction, she lets herself speak. Ilyn gives small nods and encouraging smiles throughout the entire conversation, and she finds it surprisingly easy to talk to him. 

“Ilyn,” Bronn says after the sun has gone down, “Let’s fuck off to that new bar downtown. Highgarden.” 

The two pack up, and Brienne isn’t sure what to do. She sets about shuffling through her bag for no discernible reason. Towel still there, phone still there, water bottle and sunscreen still there. Jaime watches her do it; it makes her feel antsy. 

“It was nice to meet you, Brienne,” Bronn says. He puts a hand on her shoulder and leans down by her face. “Don’t let our good boy J. Lannister scare you off. Hope to see you around again.” 

He gives her a devilish grin as he pulls back and steps away. Even Ilyn is smothering a smile. They wave, and the two turn to head back towards the parking lot. 

Jaime stands slowly from the picnic bench across from her and slides into the space to her right. His entire thigh presses against hers, and Brienne’s breath hitches at the overt contact. 

“I—um, I’m…” Brienne fumbles, at a loss for words. He smells like salt and sweat, which surely can’t be too different from how he smells after sex, and her mind is plummeting into the depths of depravity, where no words can be found.

“I’m not usually this direct,” he says. In other circumstances, Brienne might roll her eyes— _yeah, sure you’re not, buddy_ —but Jaime’s glances throughout the evening have nearly been enough to set her on fire. Surely, if he did this all the time more women in Pentos would be out-of-commission. It gives her courage. 

“I’m not usually one to entertain forward men,” Brienne responds. She turns her face towards him, and his scent gets stronger. His eyes drop to her mouth. “But I’m on vacation, so…”

The corner of his lip quirks, and he leans his head towards hers. At first, she thinks he’s going to kiss her, but his lips skim her cheek and settle under her ear. He presses a single, open-mouthed kiss there, and then speaks into her ear. 

“My house is here on the beach. Just a short walk.” 

Brienne is already nodding. “Yes.” 

His phone lights up and dings on the table between them. 

**139 new birds want to meet you on LoveRaven!**

Brienne stares at the phone while Jaime flushes. “My—my brother made me open the account. It’s not…I don’t use it for hookups, or—” She looks up at him, and he looks about as awkward as Brienne feels. 

She laughs, but it sounds so forced and strange that she wishes she’d just stayed silent. What is she supposed to say? _No worries, I have one, too? And I wanted to use it to hook up with you?_ Yeah, no. 

Except he’s reaching for his phone. Brienne smothers a groan. She can already feel it; Jaime is about to do what so many men do when they’re at a loss: over explain. 

He unlocks his phone. “I hardly ever use it, that’s why there are so many—” He falls silent when he opens the app. 

Brienne already knows what she’ll see when she looks at the screen, because the universe frequently does these things to her. Sure enough, she lowers her eyes, and there is her LoveRaven profile, glowing on Jaime Lannister’s screen. 

“I wouldn’t have thought,” Jaime mutters. 

Brienne resists the urge to bristle; she wouldn’t have thought it about herself either. It was a rare act of bravery that has consequently resulted in three years’ worth (minimum!) of embarrassment. At least she’ll have something juicy to share with Margaery when she gets home. 

“I just made it for this weekend,” she mumbles. She’s still staring at her profile. _Gods, that is the most mortifying bio ever._

**Brienne Tarth. 27. Just visiting, looking for a good time.**

Looking for a good time! Fuck her bravery. She might as well have written: “Looking to get fucked by a stranger while I’m here for the weekend! No strings attached; I’ll be gone by Monday!”

“A good time,” Jaime repeats slowly. He flicks through her photos. One of her in Tarth, with the ocean in the background. One of her and Sansa and Margaery at Arya and Gendry’s wedding. One of her before training in Goodwin’s gym, that emphasizes her size and strength. He lingers on that last one for a bit too long. 

And swipes right. 

Brienne wants to shrivel up and die as the overly peppy words “ **It’s a LoveMatch!** ” populate Jaime’s screen. 

Jaime pins her with his stare. Under normal circumstances, Brienne would be relieved that she sees no mocking there, but the crystalline lust in his gaze edges out all emotions other than raw need. 

“Your house?” she whispers. 

Jaime stands, grabs her bag, and shoves his left hand out for hers so fast she barely knows what’s happening. She slips her hand into his and he pulls her from her seat and leads her down the beach. 

“Bought it for the view,” he’s mumbling. “—Against the window…”

Brienne takes the opportunity of a short—yet admittedly brisk—walk to gather her thoughts. She knows what she wants from this. She knows what she wants from him and has few doubts he’ll give it to her readily. He has a frantic energy about him that makes her draw herself up and breathe deeply. He’ll overwhelm her with everything if let alone. She has a feeling she’ll need to tell him precisely what she wants to give and receive. 

Jaime yanks on her hand and pulls her up the steps to a stunning beachfront home with massive windows. There’s a spacious porch with a table and plenty of seating which she admires as Jaime fishes out his keys from his pocket to unlock the door. The house itself is rather small; all of the focus is on the view, and the patio takes up most of the space. 

“I—do you want water?” he asks urgently as they walk through the door.

Deep breaths, Brienne. Be brave. _Let him give you whatever you want. He obviously wants to._

“No, thank you.” Her voice is firm, and Jaime calms a bit at her assuredness. He stares at her, slack-jawed like he was when he first saw her, and takes a step forward. His eyes dip from her lips to her collarbones to her chest, and then up, up, up, settling back on her eyes.

He regains his confidence with each step and soon he’s right in front of her, nearly at her same height, and when he breathes, she can taste it. Warmth blossoms on her face and spreads over her chest. She feels hot all over—from the sun, from the warmth, from _Jaime._

She meets him halfway and suddenly his mouth is hot on hers, warm and firm and slick. His hand and arm come around her and pull her body flush against his. Jaime’s as hard all over as she is, but the planes of their muscle mold and slide together with ease. Brienne groans, the way she’d wanted to ever since she set eyes on his damned pictures, and Jaime makes a deep noise in response. She can barely hold herself in check; some wanton part of her wants to slam him into the wall and rub herself all over him. 

His tongue slips into Brienne’s mouth and traces her teeth and tongue. The feel of it drips down into the core of her. She moves her leg around his hip and when he moans into her mouth, she can’t help but move her hips in response. 

His hand is at her stomach, sliding firmly up her torso. He doesn’t stop at her breasts, but she feels his fingers brush their sides. The weight of his palm is heavy on her chest. He’s still suckling at her lower lip—

“Fuck,” she says, and he covers her mouth with his again. His hand settles in her hair, twisting in the strands and using it as leverage to move her face at his discretion. Her hips are still grinding against his, and they back up against the wall. 

Jaime’s lips move across her jaw, back towards her ear like earlier. His tongue slides down the muscle of her neck, and he blows on the cool trail. Brienne shivers. 

“Couch,” she says, surprising herself with the authority in her voice. She motions vaguely towards the sofa looking out at the dusk-blanketed sea as Jaime pulls his head back and stares at her heatedly. He pulls her with him, barely breaking contact, but she pushes him down into the cushions and stares down at him when he sits. Something about him makes her want to….

His hand is fisted on his leg, and his legs are parted. He licks his lips as he watches her, and his nostrils flare when she settles herself on her knees before him. 

Brienne has always wanted to do this. The obvious bulge in Jaime’s shorts and his desperate stare make it feel like something she can do _for_ him, instead of to him—as so many men expect. 

She places her hands on his knee, and he releases a gust of air. “Okay?” she asks. 

He nods vigorously. “Yeah.” 

Her hand slides up his thighs to pull down his swim trunks. Anticipation bubbles hot in her stomach; she has a play-by-play in her mind of all the ways she’s wanted to do this. And now there’s this man—more beautiful than anyone had a right to be—hot and tense beneath her. She pulls his trunks down, and his cock rests hard against his thigh. 

Brienne looks up at him once, just to see his face, and the lust there spurs her on. “We won today,” she manages to say as she bends to kiss the swollen tip. He makes a low sound deep in his throat. She kisses him again, and tentatively licks the slit. 

Brienne feels powerful above him, with her hands on his thighs and his muscles clenched beneath her fingers. 

“I want to claim my prize,” she says, and lowers her head over his cock. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jaime breathes, “ _Fu_ _ck, fuck._ ” Brienne lets her tongue slide along the smooth, salty length of him, feeling him twitch and fill in her mouth. She doesn’t want to use her hands yet, keeping them firmly on Jaime’s upper thighs. He releases his fist and grabs her right hand tightly when she bobs her head up and down, flattening her tongue. 

She chances a glance up at him and nearly comes at the look on his face. How a man can look so godly in pleasure is certainly far beyond her, but she’ll watch him all the same. His brows are furrowed over his dark eyes, and his lips are parted and red and swollen. His chest heaves with small breaths and he doesn’t look away from her. Not once. When her tongue traces the thick vein on his cock, his face twists with renewed pleasure, but he doesn’t close his eyes. 

He lets her watch him back.

The entire experience is nearly too much for Brienne to handle. She licks and sucks at him for a few more suspended moments but soon the heat in her stomach is too pressing to ignore. She moans around him and lets him fall from her mouth, shiny and wet. A small string of saliva connects her mouth to his cock. She licks her lips and Jaime groans. 

“What do you want?” Jaime asks. Urgent. Needy. “Anything. Anything—I’ll do it. Fuck. Tell me what you want.” 

She stands and pulls at her shorts and bathing suit. Jaime helps her and stands to untie her top. He inhales sharply when she wraps her hand around him, because he’s beautiful and hard and _right there._

“Brienne,” he whispers, nearly hunched over as she moves her fist around him. “Fuck, what do you want?” 

“You.” 

She lets him go and he pushes at her shoulders. “Please,” he says as she settles on the couch. “Let me taste you.” His residual arm presses against her stomach to keep her still as his fingers slip along the seam of her. She nods. 

He moves and in a flash his mouth is open and hot and wet against her. Brienne gasps, and his tongue slides from her clit down to her opening. She feels him press into her and retreat. Then he groans, and he buries his face against her. 

“Oh, gods,” she’s saying. She can’t stop saying it. The fire that’s been building all day is curling at the base of her stomach. She looks down and sees him, all of him, his golden-gray hair, his tanned, muscular back, flashes of his face and pink tongue, framed by her thighs—

He sucks at her unrelentingly, and the sounds are—“Fuck,” she whimpers. Brienne moves her hips against him, and it takes barely any time for her to come against his mouth, shouting out with reckless abandon. The fire spreads through her veins, and her entire body clenches. Her mouth hangs open.

“Perfect, Brienne, fuck, fucking perfect.” 

She unclenches and pulls at him, hands desperate at his shoulders and in his hair. Jaime slots his mouth against hers and dips his tongue into her mouth the same way he’d dipped it into her. He _tastes_ like her. 

“Fuck me, Jaime,” Brienne says. She doesn’t mean for it to sound quite so authoritative, but the effect it has on him is immense. His shaky desperation immediately matches her resolve, and his eyes meet hers, glinting with wicked intent. He stands, tall and golden, his cock bobbing between them, and stalks to the bathroom, returning with a condom in his hand, rolling it down himself and staring as Brienne watches him do it. 

“Lay down,” he tells her. She does. Her legs automatically open to accommodate for him. He lowers his head to her chest, and his hot tongue laves at her. Brienne shoves her fingers into his hair and runs a hand down his back, trying not to be too needy as she pulls at his hip and cants towards him. 

“Patience, sweetling,” Jaime says. _I hate this man,_ Brienne thinks. 

He reaches his hand between them and rubs his cock against her, humming in satisfaction. Brienne shoves her hips forward twice in a failed attempt to bring him inside of her. He gives a short laugh and kisses her neck. “Ready?” he asks. 

“ _Yes,_ I’ve been ready for—“

He slides into her, and she loses the ability to speak. 

“Oh, gods,” he breathes. 

It’s too much and not enough all at once. He slides deeply into her and then inches out. Brienne can feel everything. His thighs against hers, his hair at her neck, his lips on her collarbones, and his cock moving inside of her at a torturous pace. She can’t help herself; a moan wrenches itself from her throat, and she moves her hands to his ass to pull him deeper. 

Jaime gets the hint. 

“More?” he asks, and that damned cocky grin from earlier is back on his face. He rears up on the backs of his calves and uses his left hand to push her leg back. The muscle stretches and burns and she spreads herself wider. For him. 

“Yes.” 

He drives into her and tracks every response on her face. She watches him closely, and a fire builds between them like that: the vulgar sounds at their movements and the feel of where they’re joined. Their eyes are hot on the other. 

A ragged breath forces itself from Jaime’s chest. “Bri—Brienne, fuck,” he whimpers, moving jerkily. 

He puts her leg on his shoulder and brings his hand to her, rubbing quickly and desperately. She looks down and sees his cock moving in and out of her, and heat coils in her again. This time it feels different: deeper, more thorough. She follows it and reaches out blindly for him when it takes her under. 

“Jaime, Jaime,” she says, clutching him against her. He’s still moving, but each thrust is desperate and messy. 

“ _Yes,_ ” he groans, tensing and burying himself deep inside her. “ _Fuck, Brienne. Ah_ —” 

They’re still after that. Brienne runs her hand absentmindedly through his hair. His cheek is pressed against her chest, and his hand is stroking the outside of her thigh. 

“So good,” he says sleepily. He lifts his head once to look at her, and she smiles shyly. He gives her a smile in return, softer than any she saw on him earlier that day. 

He lifts himself off of her, holding out his hand to lead her to the bathroom. They clean up, and he leads her into his bedroom, holding out a soft, clean T-shirt for her to wear. She’s grateful that she knows it’ll fit. 

“Stay?” he says. Brienne doesn’t answer, just crawls into his bed and watches him get in next to her. 

* * *

A day later, Brienne’s flight lands in King’s Landing. All of the typical advertisements are still up, but she resolves not to look at them as often as she used to. Her apartment is as comfortable and welcoming as it always is, and she smiles as she opens a window. A warm breeze wafts inside and reminds her of the beach. 

_Fuck it_ , she thinks, and changes into her dress. 

She’s just adjusting the straps when her phone lights up. 

**One new message in LoveRaven.**

**Jaime Lannister** : I’d have swiped even if we didn’t meet, but thank fuck we did. I’ll be in King’s Landing next Thursday. Can I buy you dinner?

Brienne smiles. Getting older is the shit. 

**Brienne Tarth** : Yes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First draft of this had Brienne giving Jaime head before they’d even kissed! I read it back and was like….oops ...brain got ahead of me there lmfao. now SMOOCH! please forgive any errors, I am but a horny mortal

**Author's Note:**

> next up: Jaime "Sex God" Lannister reduced to an awkward mess in the face of Brienne's abs. no worries though, the man will still eat the soul out of her p***y. not to spoil it or anything


End file.
